


As Solomon Sang

by Stacicity



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bastard, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowley is absolutely besotted, heretical misuse of scripture, historical-ish, i guess??, occult and ethereal beings shagging like rabbits, with apologies to the bible??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 06:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19806673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: "Aziraphale’s fires burned cooler than Crowley’s but no less intensely. Aziraphale could bide his time and take all that Crowley had to give. And there were moments, sometimes, when Crowley would collapse onto whatever bed they were sharing that night and feel as if he had won some sort of upper hand, only to look over at Aziraphale’s smile and wonder if perhaps they were playing different games."





	As Solomon Sang

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine_

Of all the stalwarts of their time together, and there were many, there had almost always been wine. Not _exclusively_ wine, no; between them they’d run the gamut of most alcoholic beverages that humans could devise. They’d drunk sura in India, akevitt in Norway, metoctli in Mexico, but most of all, there was wine. 

Back in Rome, they’d believed that wine could heal most ailments, up to and including snakebites. Aziraphale maintained that a good vintage certainly made Crowley less inclined to snap. Crowley had given him a long look over his glasses, and poured again.

 _Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept_.

There had been grapes in the Garden too, of course, but then there’d been everything in the Garden, up to and including fruits that had never yet made their way down to Earth, berries that glowed and sparked on the lips. Sometimes Crowley wondered what became of them, whether the archangels might sully their churches of the body with vintages brewed from fruits such as those. 

They did strange things, up in Heaven, and Crowley didn’t remember much, but he did remember the Garden. 

After the Fall (and he remembered even less of that, a tumble head-over-heels to a sudden stop and the wind whistling through his feathers), the Garden had been his first glimpse of the sky. The sun had burned on his skin in a way that he didn’t remember it doing so before, and dark scales were a comfort against the heat, shadowy places a sanctuary from the sun and the eyes of angels inclined towards smiting.

Eve had taken her sweet time in being tempted, no matter what scripture then related, and Crowley had sheltered beneath the vines, in trees and under bushes, coiled amongst reeds by the river. Gardens, for the most part, meant safety. For a creature deprived of its home, there was no better sanctuary than that. 

_Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast dove’s eyes_.

Manicured hands, serene smile on cherubic lips - it was annoying, really, how _pretty_ he was. He was all softness, curves and curls, but his eyes were sharp. Crowley had seen those eyes flash fire at an insult or a threat or a provocation. He’d learned, over the years, to underestimate the angel at his peril. He was all softness because it put humans at their ease - there could be no threat from this soft-voiced, round little man, absent-minded, flustered, old-fashioned - but Crowley was no human, and he knew better.

Aziraphale had _focus_. He could smile and smile and break down Crowley’s defences inch by inch and act as if nothing had happened. He could endure hours of teasing, the barbed little comments at which Crowley excelled, acting as if he hadn’t heard a word. He could ignore so much as if he’d not noticed it, but it was all a facade. Aziraphale noticed 

_everything_. Each twitch, each flinch, each too-fast response. There was a horror, sometimes, in being so thoroughly known by an angel that could destroy him with a word if he so chose, bring him to his knees with not a single blow struck. 

“They’ll be coming back, you know. That won’t be the end of it. Do you think that Gabriel - Beelzebub - that they’ll just _let things be?_ ”

“If Adam is to believed, they won’t have a choice.”

Crowley scoffed, pacing another circle in Aziraphale’s shop. He was in serious danger of pacing a hole into the wood at this point, not least because his shoes were smoking where they struck the floor. He’d been doing this for the last three hours and Aziraphale had had to stop watching after one because he’d got dizzy. 

Yeah, well, he’s eleven years old. The last one that one of our lot sent down here was thirty-three and throwing out miracles left, right and centre, and he had to accept the great Plan sooner or later, like it or not. This is just a reprieve. And when they do come back we can’t rely on being well-prepared enough for a little body-swap.” 

“You didn’t see the way that they looked at you - er - me. In the bath. They were _horrified_.” 

“Just as well, I’m not inclined to let them try again. Let them be horrified. They should be. I might not be a Duke or a Prince but I’ll be _blessssed_ if I let them try anything again with you, angel, I will, I ssswear, I’ll-”

“My dear. Do be quiet.”

Aziraphale drew him close and sealed his lips with a kiss and Crowley was so much putty in his hands, yielding, defeated. 

_Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir._

“I don’t _think_ ,” Aziraphale was doing that voice of his, that voice which was oh-so-courteous and meant that he had some severe misgivings about whatever was going on, “that this is strictly, er…”

“Yes?” Crowley folded his arms, impatient.

“Well. It’s a bit exposed, isn’t it?”

“ _You_ ,” Crowley snapped, “were the one who said that you were so keen to enjoy the sunshine. And that the temperature was awfully mild for this time of year. And that your bed was much too small.” 

“It is.” 

“Well, then.” Crowley waved a hand towards the clearing. “Behold, O Angel of the Eastern Gate, the biggest bed that England can afford you. It’s warm, it’s quiet, we won’t be disturbed. I can’t think of anywhere better. Come _here_ , angel.” 

“Are you sure this isn’t just a latent exhibitionist streak?” He was already approaching, though, catching Crowley by the waist to draw him close and carefully push his coat from his shoulders. Crowley smirked and said nothing. 

The cloaks and robes and trappings of England in 1200 AD were heavy and inconvenient and picked up dust with every step, but he had to admit that they did afford a delightful degree of access. Rough wool gave way to smooth skin and the press of dirt on his knees, and if the grass put a stain on his hose that would never wash out it was nothing to the taste of Aziraphale on his tongue.

_As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste._

Where it started was a mystery to them both, not least because there were multiple stretches of time, now, that neither of them can remember, either through drunkenness or fatigue or just memories blurring into one another. Crowley would have sworn blind that their first time had been during Saturnalia one year in Rome, the world gone topsy-turvy, both of them fuzzy with alcohol and caught up in the madness beyond thought. Aziraphale maintained that their first time had actually been after a symposium in Greece at which conversation had been heated and they’d both been so cross and so heavy with wine (the _kylix_ having been particularly strong that evening) they’d collapsed into something half-fight, half-something else entirely. 

It hardly mattered, really. Their first time was nothing as to the times that came after, and after, and after that. For two supernatural beings gone native there was nothing more thrilling and extraordinary than to take part in that most _mortal_ of acts.

 _Stay with me flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick of love_.

The first few times had, whenever they’d occurred, certainly been induced by alcohol. Those occasions where they forgot to sober up before they could get too cross or too heated or, worse, remember that they were supposed to be enemies.

There was a satisfaction, anyway, in doing such things with one’s enemies. It was sacrilegious. Blasphemous. The first few times Crowley had grinned and hissed and teased, delighting in the myriad ways that he could make the angel cry out. He was much a stranger to this as Aziraphale but he had always been a fast learner. 

Aziraphale wasn’t a fast learner. He was clever, yes, but set in his ways, had been set in his ways even when there had only been a universe to contain them for a matter of hours. He took his time. He was diligent. That only meant that when he finally turned his attention to Crowley in earnest, things became far less funny very quickly. 

Because Crowley could sink to his knees and do things with his tongue that made Aziraphale cross-eyed and incoherent, helpless to do anything other than tangle his fingers in his hair and hold on tight and struggle not to invoke anything holy that might make Crowley sneeze or, worse, that might just _turn up_. Crowley could hold Aziraphale fast in the coils of his arms and trail kisses up his neck that had him sighing, melting against him, but Aziraphale-

Aziraphale’s fires burned cooler than Crowley’s but no less intensely. Aziraphale could bide his time and take all that Crowley had to give. And there were moments, sometimes, when Crowley would collapse onto whatever bed they were sharing that night (or desk, or floor, or rug, because Crowley was nothing if not an opportunist and Aziraphale was usually happy to indulge him) and feel as if he had won some sort of upper hand, only to look over at Aziraphale’s smile and wonder if perhaps they were playing different games. 

He would have been lying if he’d claimed it hadn’t scared him, sometimes. And embracing the better part of valour led to long years where Crowley avoided the angel, afraid of what he saw sometimes in those calm eyes, that serene little smile that Aziraphale wore. Calling what he did a temptation was all very well until he found himself the one to be caught in the trap. 

_I have put off my coat; how shall I put it on? I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them?_

Funny thing, human bodies. So many molecules strung together into something complex and functional and the first thing humans did when they realised what they had was to get all _self-conscious_ about it. Fig-leaves followed by rudimentary cloaks and so on, all the way up to the intricacies of Victorian clothing. Layer upon layer of it, starched stiff to the point where Crowley could hardly breathe.

Aziraphale looked as unaffected as ever. Bastard. 

Back in Greece, for example, or India, or Normandy, or anywhere back before humans had continued along their path of embarrassment for the sheer sake of embarrassment, it had been far more common for people to wander around _en dishabille_ , or just not dressed at all. Crowley had seen his fair share of Aziraphale’s corporation, and why not? It was just a body. Just so many atoms barely cloaking what Aziraphale _was_. But being amongst humans made one think like a human, and Crowley could feel himself slipping into the habit of it

When they were naked - in the Roman baths, say - with the whole expanse of Aziraphale’s body before him, Crowley found his eyes drawn to the hollow of the angel’s throat and the dimples at the base of his spine, to the spot at his temple where his hair curled, damp with steam, to the hollow of his ankle, to the pale inside of his wrist. Tiny little spots here and there that he longed to taste with his forked tongue. All covered up in wool and cotton and Victorian fripperies, there wasn’t much of that to see, it made him restless. When there was so much veiled he found himself drawn to the strangest of things, somehow captivated by the thought of Aziraphale’s ankle under an appalling pair of argyle socks, by his shoulder-blades underneath his shirt. 

He had the horrible feeling that Aziraphale knew it, too. He took such time in the mornings dressing, layer by layer, rather than willing himself to be clothed in the way that Crowley did. Undershirt, then a shirt, a waistcoat and a frock coat, trousers, hat, a neck-tie or a cravat - on and on it went, slow and meticulous, and Crowley lay on the bed watching as Aziraphale covered himself up and _wanting_. 

“Angel,” he’d say, low and coaxing, still naked amongst the sheets in Aziraphale’s charming little townhouse, watching their reflections in the mirror where Aziraphale would be tugging at his sleeves and fiddling with cufflinks. “Isn’t all of that a bit unnecessary?” 

“You’re the one intent upon appearances, my dear,” Aziraphale would reply breezily. “It doesn’t do to leave these sorts of things half-done.”

“Oh? Shouldn’t you have a beard, then?” Victorian gentlemen did, after all, a beard and a moustache because they weren’t covered up enough so why not add more hair to the party. Aziraphale shot him an exasperated look in the mirror. 

Shouldn’t _you_?” 

“Beards don’t suit me. Ever see a reptile with a beard?”

“You mean like a bearded dragon, perhaps?” Aziraphale smiled sweetly and Crowley rolled his eyes, and then rolled his body too, lying on his belly in the bed and resting his chin on his folded arms with a sigh. Aziraphale reached for his pocket watch to affix it to his waistcoat and walked back to the bed, sitting down on it next to where Crowley’s head rested and absently trailing his fingertips down his spine. “Come, now. What’s wrong? Why this sudden disinclination to let me get dressed?” 

“Hardly sudden,” Crowley grumbled, shifting enough to lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap, squirming back onto his back and sighing as he looked up at him, view part-obscured by the hideous paisley cravat that the angel was wearing for reasons best known to himself. “I always like you better undressed.” 

“Mm.” Aziraphale curled a gloved hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and gave him a little squeeze that made him shiver. “Patience is a virtue.” 

“ _Don’t_ -” Crowley protested but found himself thoroughly cut off by Aziraphale’s other hand reaching down to take advantage of his nudity. “You-”

“Hush,” Aziraphale stroked him steadily, Crowley obstructed from squirming too much by his ankles still caught in the sheets and Aziraphale’s hand at his neck keeping him still, and his gloves were soft and rough all at once against his skin. “You really do protest too much, my boy,” he observed, smiling fondly, all benevolence and calm even as Crowley arched and spread his legs and generally made all efforts he could to entreat Aziraphale to do more without actually having to ask. No matter. He’d ask, soon enough. 

Aziraphale had all the patience in the world, these days. It hadn’t always been so - back in their earlier days, when each encounter was still fraught and uncertain and could easily have been their last, he’d been far more inclined to impatience. Crowley would grin and back him into a dark corner somewhere and Aziraphale would find himself hot all over, hands near-shaking with the urge to undress them both as swiftly as possible. His hands were steadier, now. 

As much as human bodies were only bodies, he knew Crowley’s inside and out, knew exactly how to twist his hand to make Crowley jolt in his arms, knew the pattern of his breath that meant he was close to the edge, knew exactly the pace he needed to bring him there and - crucially - _keep_ him there. Crowley’s eyes were still open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling as he gasped for oxygen he didn’t need, toes curling against the sheets. 

“Angel...oh, _fuck_ , angel-” he panted, hips jerking as he tried to increase Aziraphale’s pace, but to no avail. They both knew how this game went. Aziraphale was in no hurry, clothed as he still was, and if his trousers were a little uncomfortably tight then he could bear that without too much trouble for as long as it took. There was a certain pleasure to be had in denial, sometimes - not to the point of asceticism, Heaven forbid, but just to make the pleasure sweeter when it came. Sweeter still to deny Crowley, when he pleaded so beautifully. 

He held steadfast, gloves catching a little on Crowley’s skin, absently threading the fingers of the hand around Crowley’s neck up into his hair, pulling enough to make Crowley’s spine arch just a little bit more flexibly than a human spine ought to be able to. 

“Close, dear?” he asked mildly, as if they didn’t both know that Crowley had been for a little while, now. Crowley swallowed, pressed his lips together, nodded frantically as if that would be plea enough. No luck. Aziraphale smiled fondly and kept his pace until Crowley thought that he might just shriek from the frustration of it, every muscle in him drawn taut, his wings straining at his shoulder blades where they’d erupt if they waited much longer whether he wanted them to or not. 

“Azsssiraphale-” he couldn’t have stopped himself from hissing if he’d wanted to, sheets damp with sweat beneath him, gulping in breaths between the helpless little moans stuttering from his throat. “ _Angel_.”

“I’m here,” Aziraphale replied, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his face. “You know how this goes.” 

“I...oh…”

“I could do this all day, you know.” He could, too. Crowley knew better than to test that. His jaw worked briefly and then a particularly cruel little twist of Aziraphale’s wrist made him screw his eyes shut and grit his teeth to try and muffle the frankly _embarrassing_ sounds that he was making. 

“ _Please_!” he gasped finally, feeling rather than seeing Aziraphale’s satisfied little smile above him. He pulled his head back again and increased his pace, grip sure and steady against him, his skin so sensitive that even the soft gloves almost _hurt_ as he jerked in Aziraphale’s hold and came, shuddering against him. Sometimes, if Aziraphale was feeling particularly cruel, he’d keep going, working Crowley well past the point of oversensitivity. Not today, though. He rubbed a thumb over the jut of Crowley’s hip and Crowley felt the mess dry and vanish in an instant. He turned his head to nuzzle against Aziraphale’s thigh, knowing full-well that the angel was hard and wanting, only to feel the vibrations of the angel chuckling as he gently nudged him away. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale bent to kiss Crowley sweetly and then stood, somehow managing to look respectable despite his straining trousers. “ _Do_ get dressed.” 

_I am come into my garden, my sister, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with my milk: eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved._

Humans were tempestuous and changeable little beasts who couldn’t seem to decide on what they wanted on any given moment. Crowley liked that about them. No sooner had one group decided that sin was to be avoided, another would devolve into the sort of full-blown debauchery that they would never have considered before. This party was one of those. 

The Volstead Act had banned the importation and sale of alcohol across the United States - but, crucially, not its consumption. All over New York, clubs and bars and ordinary families had stockpiled the stuff, fully intending to drink their way through as long as the prohibition lasted. It was rumoured that the Yale club had a fourteen year supply of it in their cellar. Whatever the law, people had decided that they wanted to drink, and likely drink far more than they would have otherwise. 

Crowley was looking out over an atrium in the house of one of New York’s senators, the floor before him a sea of sequined dresses and white jackets, champagne coupes and crystal tumblers of whisky shaking with every blast from the trumpets. One could scarcely move for the people there, and yet more and more kept crowding in. It was glorious. 

Despite the mass of people around, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was here. He could smell the angel out of a mob, that citric tang of holiness puckering his lips as he tasted the air. Precisely _what_ he was doing at a place like this, Crowley didn’t know, but he had every intention of finding out. 

He wasn’t much fond of being in the thick of a crowd but there was something intoxicating about this one - he put his hand against a woman’s waist as he passed her, clasping a man on the shoulder, enjoying the togetherness of it all. Worshippers at the altar of debauchery, every one, and it was hard not to get caught up in it. 

Hard for most people, that was. Aziraphale looked as prim as ever, standing at an open window with a cigarette in his hand and watching the chaos. Crowley grinned and sauntered over in his direction, slipping an arm around his waist from behind and leaning close. 

“Io, Saturnalia,” he purred, enjoying the feeling of Aziraphale starting against him, surprised, before he recognised Crowley’s voice and relaxed into his hold. 

“More of a Bacchanal, I should think,” he replied, taking another drag from his cigarette and then holding it out for Crowley who took it and disentangled himself, leaning against the windowsill and offering Aziraphale his drink in return. From the looks of the angel he didn’t need it, though. He had a faintly dazed expression and his cheeks were flushed. Oh, from a distance he was respectable enough, but close-up Crowley knew him well enough to see when he was more than a little into his cups. “It’s all a little- well. _Isn’t_ it.” 

Crowley laughed, catching Aziraphale by the hand to draw him closer and press a kiss to his lips. Nobody was looking at them in the crush of people, but even had the room been half-empty, nobody would have glanced their way anyway. Crowley made sure of that. Their eyes would have slid right over them without being able to focus on either of them.

“It is,” he agreed when they parted. “Angel, what are you doing here?” 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale looked somewhat embarrassed, shuffling his feet a bit and looking out over the throng of dancers and lovers and revellers around them, “it seemed a shame not to come and see.” 

Crowley felt a little pulse of fondness at that. Even Aziraphale wasn’t immune not to curiosity, and he couldn’t blame him - tonight, this was the greatest party on Earth, the Roman Empire come back for a night, Old Babylonia on the streets of New York. Crowley intended to enjoy it for all that it was worth and now that Aziraphale was here, he _could_. He held the cigarette out so Aziraphale could take another drag and then put it out in a nearby glass, grabbing them two more drinks from a passing tray. 

“You know, this senator has a rather wonderful library, I hear,” he remarked, having to shout a little over the noise of the band and the shrieks (a splash - somebody falling into the fountain, perhaps?) about them. Aziraphale’s face lit up, though, and Crowley slung an arm around his waist to pull him back through the crowd. This house had twenty four bedrooms and it looked like each and every one was occupied judging by the couples, trios, the little groups in the hallway, in the bathrooms, scholars and politicians and dancers all intertwined. Some things never changed, and Crowley had long enjoyed the human propensity for debauchery. The library was occupied too with a few groups here or there but when Crowley pulled Aziraphale in they drifted out, suddenly filled with the urge to get another drink or have some fresh air or generally do anything other than be in the room right now.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly as Crowley closed the door, wandering to one of the shelves to examine the books. “How have you been?” 

“Me? Fine. I’m always fine.” Crowley took a sip of his drink, settling in an armchair to watch Aziraphale as he wandered the outskirts of the room. “Thought I’d had enough of Europe for the time being.” 

Aziraphale nodded, setting his glass down and returning to Crowley’s side, perching on the arm of his chair. 

“Quite understandable. I’ve just arrived, actually; I stayed for the peace conference in Paris, saw that through. Interesting experience, though I’m not sure I like all of Wilson’s ideas. Clemenceau certainly wasn’t impressed.”

>“Clemenceau wouldn’t have been impressed with anything bar the total destruction of the whole blessed country,” Crowley sighed, reaching up to take hold of Aziraphale’s ridiculous little bow-tie and tug him close for another kiss. “Never mind him. You’re here now, what do you make of it?” 

“Mm-” Aziraphale put off replying in favour of a few more kisses that fizzed like champagne, brushing his fingers over Crowley’s cheek and then towards his hair and raising his eyebrows. “Good Lord. Did you empty your pomade tin onto your hair?” 

“It’s the fashion,” Crowley sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” 

“Not the style in Berlin right now, I can tell you. You’d like it. Very, er - well it’s similarly debauched, but rather differently so.” 

“I’ve got all the debauchery I need right here, for now.” Crowley grinned and tugged at the angel’s bowtie again until he relented and slid into his lap for a proper kiss. He could still hear the music thumping through the walls, the giggling and shrieking of people outside, but nobody would disturb them for the time being in this little book-lined sanctuary. Aziraphale was eager tonight. Crowley couldn’t blame him. Tonight might have been sparkling and luxuriant but they both knew where they’d last seen one another - in far less happy circumstances - and whilst Crowley would have kissed Aziraphale anytime and anywhere, the trenches of the Somme were not a place for a happy reunion. 

Aziraphale was a little thinner than Crowley liked to see him, he could feel it as he pulled the angel’s shirt out of his trousers to slide a hand up his back. Rationing, maybe. Fatigue, perhaps, who knew? They’d both had a lot of cause to be busy over the last few years, so he was going to _enjoy_ himself now, he was going to make Aziraphale forget the horrors they’d seen over the last little while. Judging by the way that Aziraphale was panting against his lips already, he had no complaints whatsoever about that plan. 

The writing desk was an eminently convenient surface over which to bend Azirpahale, biting at his earlobe, his neck, his shoulder, their clothes melting away wherever Crowley touched. 

“ _Really_ , Crowley, I liked that jacket-” Aziraphale protested, only to swallow his words when Crowley knelt behind him, hands on his still-clothed thighs. 

“Mm? Like these trousers too, do you?” 

“I...I could stand to lose them.” 

That’s what I thought.” A snap of Crowley’s fingers and away they went, Aziraphale’s underclothes with them, leaving Crowley free to lean forward and taste him, make him cry out against the wood of the desk and grip it with his fingertips. Really, he was doing everyone at the party a favour. Miracles could get a little out of hand when Aziraphale found himself driven near out of his mind - somewhere at the party the somewhat vinegary champagne smuggled in through back-channels and criminal means was finding itself turning into a much finger vintage, not that anybody was likely to appreciate it. 

There were myriad advantages to a serpentine tongue. It would have been crude to list them in too much detail but suffice it to say that Crowley rendered Aziraphale rapidly incoherent in English, then French, then Hebrew, and then in any language humans had spoken since the dawn of time. All the better to hear him cry out, shudder, jerk his hips and come like the pop of a champagne cork. He was still shaking, but even like this he had the presence of mind to turn and drag Crowley upright to kiss him almost fiercely, curling his fingers around him. His grip was slightly unsteady but more than enough and the kiss was as their kisses had been since the first time (whenever it was). More than enough. Everything, in fact. 

Their champagne glasses refilled themselves of their own accord, their clothes putting themselves back into place with barely a thought. Crowley smoothed his hair back into order and settled back into the chair, in Aziraphale’s lap this time, trading lazy kisses and listening to the party going on around them. The library door flew open and groups started to trickle in again - well, it didn’t do to live entirely on the outskirts. Half the fun of being here was to be a part of the action. 

_Thou art beautiful, O my love, as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners._

Given their history Crowley was well-acquainted with seeing Aziraphale angry, in all of its myriad forms. Peeved and irritable when he was busy with something and felt that Crowley was being obstructive. Exasperated. Tense and low-toned when Crowley pushed rather too far into blasphemy than he was comfortable with and he felt that he had to provide some actual response. And then there was Divine Wrath, which was something else entirely. Crowley avoided that as much as he could. Aziraphale had cast him into the dust several times, run him through with his sword, caught him by the neck and torn him from the sky and it was _terrifying_. 

It was also unsettlingly attractive. 

Now, even Crowley wasn’t foolish enough to court that sort of thing from Aziraphale when he was genuinely angry. If he had one thing it was an instinct for self-preservation. But there was something about the flash in Aziraphale’s eyes when he got just past that point of exasperation and onto genuine irritation that made his stomach drop and his heart clench and his breath stutter in the most intoxicating way. He very carefully _didn’t_ analyse that, because it no doubt stemmed for all manner of demonic neuroses that he didn’t want to examine, but there it was. 

At any rate, if it _was_ demonic neuroses then he was certainly a lucky demon to be able to court that reaction without worrying about discorporated. Instead he could saunter into Aziraphale’s shop and make a nuisance of himself, a barbed comment here, a casual brush of his finger against the spine of a book here, and Aziraphale would pick it up swiftly enough. It didn’t make much odds to Crowley whether Aziraphale was indulging him or not, because if he was then the facade was a _good_ one. 

“You never did learn not to test me past my limits, did you?” Aziraphale would murmur in Crowley’s ear, one hand bending his arm behind his back to keep him still, his hold just on the edge of painful, his other hand already engaged in stretching him open. It wasn’t strictly necessary, their control over the physical world being what it was, but it was another opportunity to tease and Aziraphale liked those. Perhaps another time Aziraphale would bend him over the little table in the back room and fuck him until he could scarcely draw breath, not that he needed it (and a good thing too, with Aziraphale’s hand clamped fast around his neck). Another time, Aziraphale would give him a sharp look and tell him to put his mouth to better use and then sit somehow _miraculously_ impassive with a book in his hand for hours at a time until Crowley (unhingeable jaw or not) was aching and impatient and squirming in place, desperate for his attention in whatever form it came. <

The point was, whenever he was restless and jumpy, he was liable to snap. Serpents didn’t do well backed into a corner. For all that he had a habit of pressing Aziraphale against walls, he didn’t fancy having his back against one if he could help it, it made him liable to flee or to _bite_. And this world of theirs was full of danger around all corners. Humans doing awful things to one another (the Crusades, the Rhineland massacres, the Spanish Inquisition), humans being set upon by the world around them (Pompeii, the Black Death, Spanish Flu), not to mention interference from his side and Aziraphale’s. And sometimes it was nice to court danger knowing that there would be no harmful consequences beyond being teased to within an inch of his life (such as it was). To know that afterwards he’d be gathered up in Aziraphale’s arms, safe and close and loved. 

Therapeutic, that. Almost. Not that he’d ever tell a bloody therapist a word of it. 

_His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem._

After the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, sitting in Crowley’s flat, they had to confront the rest of their lives. Eternity stretching around before them and no purpose, no plan. They weren’t quite angels, not quite demons, _certainly_ not humans, and yet here they were. 

“Unemployed,” Aziraphale said morosely, swirling his wine around his glass. “I didn’t think it would be like this.” 

“Ah, well. You’ve been redundant since the first day,” Crowley replied cheerfully, because the irritable look Aziraphale shot him was better than trying to worry about the future. Stick to what they knew, the temptation and the thwarting, the ebb and flow of their bickering that had lasted through six thousand years. He leaned across the table to take Aziraphale’s hand, eyes earnest behind his sunglasses, tangling their fingers together. “Look. In the grand scheme of things, is it really that much of a change? We’re the same. We’ve _always_ been this way.”

“So we - what? Live out an existence like the humans do with no prospect of eternity at the end of it?” 

Crowley tilted his head, considering that. 

“I suppose beforehand, our prospect of eternity ended with one of us dead by necessity,” he said after a while. “Either your side wins, or mine does. Winner takes all. At least this way, we might end up in the same place.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, stricken, holding onto his hand and then leaning in to kiss him. Probably for the best. There weren’t many words to be said, after something like that.

When it came down to it, Crowley was right. Not much changed. At the end of the night, they retired to Crowley's bed. Crowley woke up held close in a shroud of feathers, Aziraphale snoring quietly behind him. He didn’t sleep often, but it had been a tiring week. The sunlight was streaming through the large windows in his bedroom, illuminating the leaves of the plants around them - their own private garden, just the two of them. No Hell, no Heaven. John Lennon had it right after all. 

Crowley nestled closer into Aziraphale’s hold and remembered waking up in Valencia and Verona, in Hokkaido and Kuala-Lumpur, in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and on the floor of a library in a senator’s house in New York, a champagne glass still clutched in his hand. When it came down to it, there was really only one thing worth waking up for, and it was right here with him in his bed. Hard luck for old Solomon - he sought him, and he found him, and he wasn’t going to let him go.

 _Thou that dwellest in the gardens, the companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it._

**Author's Note:**

> In the words of the great Eddie Izzard: blasphemy, blasphe-you, blas for everybody in the world. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at ajcrawly and talk to me about stuff


End file.
